Page 37

37

AMbrOSE

For the next thirty-six hours, Ambrose did nothing but craft the one candle Bessa needed. He called upon Qanuk to quickly harden the wax, remelting and reforming the candle over and over, softening and hardening it until it was something indestructible.

He poured his heart into the wax as he poured the wax into the mold.

Finally, his eyes as heavy as the iron pots in his work room, Ambrose finished his creation, his hands encased in wax. Before handing it over, he inspected the candle for flaws. He could find none. It was perfect. The thick pillar of beeswax from a hive that only visited the queen’s damask roses vibrated slightly, as if it held memory of the bees. It emitted a low, golden glow, and smelled of her favorite flower.

He trudged to the castle, holding the candle between his palms like a beacon in the night. Qanuk came for a moment, sensing him from the woods, and bounded along his side before disappearing back into the wild.

When Ambrose entered the Great Hall, he didn’t notice any of the pomp and circumstance of the coronation. He let his heart lead him, thumping against his ribs and announcing Bessa’s location. As he followed his instincts, the music rose in waves, and when he finally caught sight of her, he felt as rooted to the castle floor as an ancient tree, never to be moved.

Bessa wore a gold and white satin gown furred with white ermine. Her fiery hair draped over her shoulders, long and loose, in waves netted with seed pearls. Just at the crown of her head, she wore a simple coronet of gold, and Ambrose could feel everyone in the room wondering the same thing. How did she look so much like a faerie queen come to life? She was Frostine herself.

A group of musicians played off-center in the ballroom while people from every village in Frostvale mingled with the royal retinues. The Glacial Council stood in their ceremonial blue robes stitched with white snowflakes along the borders, the ministers keeping their faces as impassive as a winter mountain.

Ambrose did not pause at the towering tables of food he’d never dreamed he’d see anywhere, let alone in Frostvale. He did not accept the mug of ale that Noll attempted to put in his hands or let himself be drawn into conversation with Dropian about the stonework, or Lorcan and Duskborne about the wine, or even Mika about the frog who was still peeping angrily from inside her dress pocket. He had tunnel vision, and everyone around the edges of it remained out of focus.

Bessa turned, her gown swirling around her legs as she felt him, too. Without a word, she picked up her dress with both hands, and they moved toward each other, the magician and suitors she was talking to left abandoned mid-sentence. Even the music faded to black. Ambrose felt the knot of dread in his stomach loosen a little upon seeing her freckled face.

Before he could hand her the candle, a loud noise rent the air. Someone paused the music, the lute making a strangled sound. It was her councilor Rune. He had a conflicted expression on his face. “Queen Bessa, the time has come,” he announced. “As you approach your coronation, you also approach your hour of decision. Are you ready to choose your king?”

Bessa paused, dropping her dress. Her eyes begged him to do something, just as he had during the fire or the frost fair. She wanted him to save her, and this time, all he had was a candle he’d made with his hands and his heart.

So he offered it up.

“I am close,” she announced, a hint of sadness in her voice. “But first, I must light the way. It is a time-honored tradition in Frostvale to keep the faith, even in the darkest of winter nights, with light. In this way, the cold does not claim us.” She lifted her chin. “Master Chandler, will you come forward?” she asked.

His steps were wooden and stiff, but her steady gaze kept him going. What else could he do? He’d crafted the only candle he could, the one the magic told him she needed, just as it told him when a family needed a little extra warmth or a memory needed to be reignited.

She didn’t ask what type of candle it was or what it would do. She took it between her hands, the heat between them pooling for a moment in the wax. Then she leaned into the nearest brazier, the heat from its flame igniting the wick with a soft crackle.